


Fingers Laced To Crown

by LivingSilver



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Choking, F/M, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-22 15:56:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22518622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivingSilver/pseuds/LivingSilver
Summary: “What is it?” Geralt hums in between trailing kisses along the delicate skin of your throat when you sigh and shift in his lap yet again within the span of minutes passed. Not a sigh pleasure, not an anxious cant of desire but, but rather distracted in their nature, of something weighing on your mind, plain in your eyes as he glances upwards.“What do you mean?” You deflect easily enough, breathy, shifting with intention now against his thigh.You should really know better by now.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 316





	Fingers Laced To Crown

"What is it?" Geralt hums in between trailing kisses along the delicate skin of your throat when you sigh and shift in his lap yet again within the span of minutes passed. Not a sigh pleasure, not an anxious cant of desire bu, but rather distracted in their nature, of something weighing on your mind, plain in your eyes as he glances upwards.  
  
"What do you mean?" You deflect easily enough, breathy, shifting with intention now against his thigh.   
  
You should really know better by now.  
  
"You're thinking about something," he replies, gently nipping at your earlobe. Lips pressing in the tender place just below.  
  
Silence.  
And then.  
  
"I'm thinking," you start with a breath, lacing your fingers atop his where they rest on either of your thighs, tipping your face to him, kissing him gently, gently, a slip of tongue, then your teeth catching softly in the swell of his bottom lip, softly, then less so, a steady sharp drag, Geralt rumbling a low, satisfied noise before you release it.   
  
"Thinking about," you continue, capturing his mouth again more hungrily this time, guiding one of his hands slowly up your body, the click of your lips separating, "your hands", lips meeting yet again, bringing his hand higher, higher, over your chest, to your collar bone--  
  
" _Here_ ," you finish against his mouth, fingers twined together at the base of your throat.  
  
Amber gaze glimmering, darkening dangerously.   
  
You disentangle your fingers from his.  
  
"Is that so," he lilts rhetorically, voice dropping, studying you.  
  
"And what would I do with my hands here?" He muses, but the glint is knowing behind his eyes as he runs his thumb experimentally over the curve where your neck and shoulder meet. Watching your lashes flutter. Then the backs of his knuckles skirting up and back down along the side of your throat and your whisper of an exhale that follows.  
  
Unfurling his hand then to palm your throat, and you're on edge with anticipation, while his breath is cautious and tight in his chest with his own latent desires, and then his thumb dipping just into the hollow of your throat, just barely, pressing, but still something, enough to have you not so much sighing but rather melting a breath against him, becoming heavy on his thigh, center pressing tighter against the thick muscle through the embroidered cambric of your small clothes.  
  
Geralt curses, kissing you deeply, hand remaining curled at the base of your throat, thumb easing more heavily into the hollow, exchanging catchings of breath, you growing _needy_ against him in the grind of your hips, the slide of your tongue-- his blood flushing hot with the heady realization that he could get you off like this with just his hand around your throat and you writhing over his thigh.   
  
And you are wet and so hot over his thigh, delicious friction of delicate cambric, the hand that remains splayed on your thigh sliding higher, pushing up your dress, hand at your throat pushing harder, just briefly, a second, then edging away, a whine, a please, Geralt spreading his legs wider, allowing you more room to rut against him, tensing the muscle of his thigh, steadily suspending your breath in the grasp of your throat, leaning away slightly so he can watch you wreck yourself--the sharp cant of your hips, the sight of his hand framing your neck unexpectedly intoxicating, more so than he would ever dare to admit, inside every man there's a beast, squeezing gently, doing his best to ruin you carefully, without harm, but you're panting, clung to him, fingers furled in the fabric of his shirt, and he can't help but oblige the unspoken request of tighter, his grip fulfilling it in increments, callouses pressing rough into your skin, oblivion floating around the edges of your vision as air becomes more scarce, his thigh huge, solid beneath you, rolling your hips, angling them a desperate grind where you ache most, the sweet sting of oxygen escaping your lungs, and there, his grip growing tighter still, just as you roll above the tensed muscle, and the ache unraveling into blacked out bliss, head tipping back what his grasp will allow, coming with a choked off keen, stilling, _still_ , everything is still in the overcloud of black, just your heartbeat too loud in your ears, and Geralt's hand warm and unyielding around your neck, _his hand around your neck_ , pulses pressed together, and soaking through your smallclothes through to the fabric of his pants.  
  
He brings you down with kisses, tender and wanting laid against the upturned line of your jaw and then the edge of your lips, fingers nothing but a murmur against your throat now, a murmur against the noose of his handprint that is sure to linger, licking languidly into your mouth, letting you seek the air from his lungs before your hands pull his shirt from his pants, up, over his head, nails skimming down the expanse of his chest, lips finding the crook of his jaw, freeing his swollen cock from his pants, leaking in your hand, teasing your fingers along it while he tugs at the laces of your dress so it pools at your feet when you stand, moving out his lap briefly to divest yourself of your small clothes.  
  
Hooded gaze lingering on the curves of your body before pulling you to straddle him, and you eagerly doing so, climbing into his lap, sinking down onto his cock after only a moment's pause. One steady move that fills you to breathlessness again, his rough exhale a contrast to your high gasp. He leans back on one arm for leverage, the muscles of his bicep bound tight, rocking up into you, even his Witcher's stamina isn't going to last long not after _that_ , he thinks if he were a mere man he would have spilled untouched. Your walls cloy at him now with every strong curl of his hips, all the while his hand remains at your throat, spanning a whisper over your collar bone. Your back curves to arch into the touch that he keeps deliberately light, every stroke and caress of his fingers has you fluttering around him. He could break you if he wanted, if you asked--you're so fucking fragile at the thought, weak for hands that were wrought to slay, to wield a sword, to lay open bone, to bruise, one which now deftly frames your throat, he could break you if you asked, your gaze flickering open to meet his.  
  
His fingers curving in close, tightening against your already tender jugular, and he fucks you hard, sharp thrusts of his entire length, unforgiving in his force, and his voice a low current of _I've got you_ that renders you numb in his vice grip, _that's it_ , dull tendrils of ecstasy wrapping you up, setting your nerve endings alight, his name managing to escape the clutches of his grasp in a dissonant moan on your lips, nails biting into the muscle of his shoulders, and Geralt's length throbbing, throbbing as the wet twitches of your release run down him, rhythm beginning to falter, cock swelling as he fills you, coming with a deep, ragged kind of sound that echoes in the quiet room.  
  
Lips ghosting over your throat and the promise of bruises to bloom afterwards as he shifts, sitting up, both hands sliding up your back, your own arms draped lazily around him, his amber eyes almost mischievous as he catches your own hazy gaze, arching a brow, and then the corners of his mouth turning up just so--  
  
"Anything else you've been thinking about?" 

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not really happy with this but I’ve worked on it way too long to not post it and I’m really just a slut for any type of throat touching, and Geralt being very low key kinky, because he’s been around, you know like, he probably isn’t very upfront about things but if you ask for something, if you want something, if you even hint at wanting something, he’ll give it to you and he’ll give it to you better than anyone else ever could, thanks bye.
> 
> Title belongs to Florence and the Machine.
> 
> tumblr: thirstbxtch (writing) or fairiequeens (main)


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